


103 Hours

by A_bit_not_good_yeah



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, POV First Person, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 19:37:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_bit_not_good_yeah/pseuds/A_bit_not_good_yeah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a cold, and is really quite angry when Sherlock seems indifferent about the whole thing. But he should know better than to underestimate everyone's favorite consulting detective. Set during Series 2, post ASiB, but pre-Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	103 Hours

**Author's Note:**

> This is unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine. This is only my second attempt at Sherlock fanfic, so I hope you enjoy it. Thank you for reading! Also, please feel free to comment--comments are better than chocolate-covered sex.

“Sherlock?” I called wearily as I came downstairs. “Sherlock, are you—” I couldn’t finish the thought, because a vicious round of coughing attacked just then. God, that hurt.

I made my way into the kitchen to put the kettle on. My limbs wouldn’t cooperate with me, though. Everything felt like I was moving through sand. And my head, oh god, the throbbing, pounding headache just would not leave. Every cough made it worse. As much as I hated to admit it, I knew I was sick. I HATE being sick. Just a cold, I think, but still. I pulled my robe around me tighter as a chill hit me and I fumbled with the kettle some more. When I turned around, I bumped the kitchen table with my hip and the box of tea tumbled to the floor, spilling its contents everywhere. Picking it up meant a head rush that would probably make my pounding temples explode. I was still contemplating whether it would be worth it when another coughing fit struck. That decided it.

“Fine. You win. Tea, 1. John Watson, 0.” I shuffled over to my armchair and collapsed into it, trying to breathe slowly and evenly. I could feel every individual hair on my scalp bristle as another chill came over me. I closed my eyes and moaned—yes, I know, I’m not proud of it. It’s just the helplessness of being sick that I hate. Every move an effort, every thought labored. It’s part of the reason I became a doctor—the illusion of control over illness, and the hope that I could help others avoid that helpless feeling. Of course, being a doctor does fuck all for you when battling a common cold.

I sat in the armchair for what could have been months, and tried to gather my strength to go back into the fold against my nemesis, the tea. Just as I was halfway between resolved to action and dozing, I heard the front door and a set of quick footsteps up the stairs. Sherlock came bursting into the flat, his coat swooshing dramatically behind him. It may have appeared more dramatic than it actually was, mostly in comparison to my inability to move beyond a snail’s pace. He does swoosh that coat a lot, though.

“Oh, John, good, so glad you’re up. I was afraid you were going to sleep all day.” He swept away into his bedroom, still talking, and in a rather manic state of glee. “No new cases today, I’m afraid, but Molly called and has provided me with an _excellent_ sample of human ears so I can start my experiment on long-range sound frequencies that I was telling you about. I’ll need you to be my research assistant and log the numbers from the algorithms I’ve come up with as I—oh god, you’re ill.” He stopped in his tracks as he emerged from the bedroom with a large plastic bag of, yes, those were definitely ears.

“I’m fine, it’s just a cold.”

“No, you’re not fine, you look dreadful.” He quickly crossed to stand in front of me, examining my pitiful state. Deducing. “Temperature 39.1 or so? Your eyes are bloodshot from coughing, the drying sweat on your brow indicates alternate fever and chills, and your nose is inflamed from mucous drainage. Oh, John, really, how could you let this happen?”

“I told you I wasn’t feeling well yesterday. And I didn’t _let_ this happen, you prat. It just happened. I do work with sick people, you know. I’m bound to catch something every once in a while.” My anger at his disdain would have come out more forcefully if my voice hadn’t cracked in the middle. It also didn’t help that I had to close my eyes again to catch my breath and make sure I didn’t black out.

Though my eyes were closed, I could feel Sherlock leaning close to me, feel his body heat. He put a hand briefly on my forehead, and I huffed in surprise at how cool it was. Just as suddenly as it appeared it was gone, and I heard Sherlock move to the kitchen and start fiddling with the kettle I had abandoned.

“What are you doing?” I wheezed, coughing some more.

“Texting Sarah to tell her you won’t be in today or tomorrow, most likely.” I heard the remains of the box I had spilled being picked up, and then Sherlock mumbling to himself. “21 hours now, approximately 48 hours of incubation, average recovery 96 hours, at least it’s Thursday and we’ll have the weekend…must get Mrs. Hudson. We’ll say 100 hours to be safe, oh dull, it’s going to be so very dull. Chicken. Shower.”

“What are you on about?” I croaked at him.

“Nothing. Just sit there and try to control your fluids.”

“Will you stay with me?”

He didn’t respond, just continued to text.

 _Arrogant bastard_ , I thought. _It’s not my fault I got sick._ I don’t remember much after that, because my exhausted body finally fell into a doze, and then actual sleep.

******************************************************************************

When I woke up, everything was gray. My head was still foggy and everything _hurt_. I rolled over onto my side and reached over to my bedside table for a tissue but my hand closed on thin air. I opened my eyes more and the room was wrong. Papers everywhere. Books piled in corners, the desk in the wrong place—and were those petri dishes? My bedside table wasn’t there because I wasn’t in my bed. I sat up and looked down at the soft, and very expensive, gray sheets pooled around my waist and I knew I was in Sherlock’s bed, in Sherlock’s room. But why?

I turned to the other side of the bed and saw a cup of something steaming sitting on Sherlock’s bedside table. It was warm and it smelled vaguely like broth, although my sense of smell was dulled considerably. Curious about where it came from, I gave it a sniff.

Chicken soup. I chuckled a bit, but that turned into coughing. Mrs. Hudson must have made it and put it there. I’d have to thank her for it once I was well.

I looked in the cup and took a sip. It was heavenly. The broth was quite warm, and as I inhaled some of the steam, I could feel my nasal passages clearing. It also felt soothing on my throat, roughened by all the coughing. Although I couldn’t taste much of it, I had the sense of being _fortified_. Mrs. Hudson really was an excellent cook. I drained the cup, chewing on the bits of chicken and carrots that were left.

 _Why am I in Sherlock’s room? Why didn’t I go back upstairs?_ I didn’t think I was delirious with fever, but I had been pretty out of it. His room was closer. No stairs. Maybe I just came in here and collapsed. I’d only slept in here a few times because Sherlock preferred my bed over his when we had sex. God knows why, although I suspected it might have to do with preserving these poncey sheets.

 _What time is it? How long was I out?_ I glanced at the clock by the bed, taking care not to move my head too fast. The soup had helped, but everything still ached. 20:02. I’d been out most of the day.

I got up slowly, just to shake some of the stiffness out of my limbs and trying to loosen up my shoulder. I made my way into the living room, but Sherlock wasn’t there. A pang hit me in the chest at that—my mum always stayed near when I was sick as a kid. She used to sing to me as I went to sleep, and bring me a cuppa and toast with the crusts cut off. Of course, Sherlock would never do anything like that. Still, it would have been nice if he played the caretaker role a bit. It would make me feel less vulnerable, at least.

I put the kettle on, this time without incident. “Haha,” I whispered in triumph as I successfully filled my mug with tea. “You shall not defeat me again, you bastard.”

I gingerly sat on the thinking couch and turned on the telly. I had to move some papers and charts out of the way first—clearly Sherlock was not going to let my illness slow him down on whatever experiment he was working on. I couldn’t make heads or tails of them, just a lot of scribbles with numbers (maybe hours? There were some graphs with hours) and names of amino acids. Settling for a Top Gear marathon, I sipped my tea and pulled a blanket around me. Trying not to think about the comfort Sherlock’s arms would have offered at the moment, I finished my tea and eventually fell back asleep.

******************************************************************************

When I woke up, I was back in Sherlock’s room. _Again? How did I get here? I don't remember leaving the couch. Bloody hell this cold has cocked my brain up._ I stretched out in the silky gray sheets and looked over at the chair in the corner, hoping against hope that Sherlock would be there. He wasn’t, of course.

Instead of Sherlock, there was another cup of Mrs. Hudson’s soup waiting for me. It was still steaming, sitting on the bedside table, just as before, and I gulped it down greedily. Bless that woman. I felt stronger today than yesterday, but I knew I would need at least one more day of rest before I felt normal again.

I thought a hot shower might help clear some of the fog from my head and loosen up my aching muscles, so I padded to the bathroom. I found a fresh towel and turned the water on full blast and almost to the point of scalding. Pulling off my pyjamas, I suppressed a chill and got in under the spray. Ohhh, that was nice. The steam was already clouding the bathroom but I just let the water roll off my back and shoulders. Working the soap over all my limbs felt good, but it was also tiring. I dropped the soap, and when I bent down to pick it up, I could feel my temples threatening to burst from the pressure. I grunted as I straightened back up and took some deep breaths while the warm water ran down my face. _This is going to be a long weekend._

I turned the water off and got out, toweling off slowly. I did feel better, but the exertion of standing and moving so much had made me quite tired. I shrugged into my robe and felt something in the pocket. I pulled out a small jar of that Vicks menthol rub and looked at it quizzically. _When did I grab that? I looked through the medicine cabinet earlier, I think…must have put it in my pocket then._ This fever certainly had me in a fog. Or that might be the steam from the shower. I opened the door to the bathroom and let the steam clear out—hopefully I could clear my head a bit too.

While unscrewing the cap of the jar I heard rustling in the living room. Sherlock was pacing, and I could hear him clicking away on his Blackberry. Calculating, from the sound of it, because I could hear snatches of his deductions. “53.5 hours…46.5 remaining, dependent upon hourly temperature…check vitamin D levels in the morning.” I had no idea what he was on about. He had said no new cases ( _Did he say that? I can’t even recall, god my head hurts_ ) but maybe Lestrade called while I was asleep. Of course Sherlock was more concerned with work than with my plague.

I dipped my fingers into the goopy stuff in the jar and began to rub it in small circles on my chest and throat. My skin immediately began to tingle, and I moaned slightly as my fingers brushed past my swollen lymph nodes. I squeezed my eyes shut as I continued to massage the medicated rub onto my achey muscles. When I opened them, Sherlock was there in the doorway, watching me.

I jumped and nearly lost my grip on the jar of Vicks. “Jesus, Sherlock! You scared the hell out of me!” His pale blue eyes narrowed as he looked me up and down, focusing on my chest smeared with the mentholated jelly. He turned and stalked back into the living room without saying anything.

I followed him, confused. “Is everything alright?”

“Mm.”

“Okay. Did you need something?”

“No.”

I was getting a bit annoyed now, because he was being deliberately stubborn, and he knew how bloody awful I was feeling. Couldn’t he give me just the slightest break when my own body was revolting against me? And would it kill him to ask how _I_ was feeling instead of me checking up on him all the time?

“I’m feeling a little better, by the way.”

“Mm.”

 _How nice of you to show some concern._ “I heard you talking just now. Working on a case?”

“No.”

“Oh, well, erm. How is the ear experiment going?”

“What? Oh, I wasn’t working on that either.” He seemed annoyed, jittery. Something wasn’t right.

“Well, what were you working on, if I might ask?”

“Nothing, John,” he snapped at me. “It’s none of your concern. Go back to bed, you’re of no use to me when you’re like this. Go away.”

“Oh, I see. I’m of no _use_ to you. Well, I’m so glad that my…” I stumbled here. _Boyfriend? We haven’t talked about that yet…_ “flatmate is so concerned with my well-being, just as long as it’s of _use_ to him,” I finished lamely. This was no time to be thinking about the parameters of our rather unique relationship. It did seem the time for me to be getting angry though.

He signed dramatically. “I care about your well-being, John. I need you back on your feet as soon as possible, and the only way that will happen is if you get some rest now.”

“I thought you said there wasn’t a case.”

“I did.”

“Then what do you need me for?”

“Oh, John, stop being so melodramatic. Just because there’s no case now doesn’t mean there won’t be one later.”

I was breathing heavily now, almost panting from the exertion of the shower and restraining the anger that was only making my head pound more furiously. “Are you kidding me? After all that we’ve done together…and I’m still just your fucking assistant?”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed and then his face went back to its indifferent mask. I took vicious satisfaction in knowing I had at least struck a nerve momentarily. He stared at me impassively and said, “John, this is ridiculous. Go back to bed. I’m going out for awhile, so you’ll have the flat to yourself to recover.”

I gaped at him, open-mouthed. I knew I was overreacting, but I didn’t care, and I wasn’t thinking clearly. It was selfish of me to ask him to take care of me, and I never would. The phrase _in sickness and in health_ floated through my brain, but I pushed it away. But at the first sign of trouble, he abandons me…claims I was useless…it only confirmed what I’d feared all along, didn’t it?

“Fine!” I shouted as he put on his scarf and coat. He didn’t even turn to look at me as he continued out the door.  “I am so sorry that my illness has gotten in the way of your _work_. Maybe you should find someone else to help you, because you obviously have no use for a man who’s a mere mortal like me, unlike the magnificent Sherlock fucking Holmes!” I heard the front door slam after the last word and I stifled a cough.

I stalked back down the hall to Sherlock’s room and slammed the door. In hindsight, this was the last place I wanted to be, but I didn’t think I could manage the stairs up to my room. Also, let the arse stay out there for the night if he even came back. Not that he usually slept in his bed anyway, but the option had now been taken from him. I had to support myself on the doorframe as a coughing fit overtook me. I should have known better than to yell at him in this state, but I thought we were past this nonsense after we started…whatever it is we’ve been doing. Things had been going so well after that night a few weeks ago, when he flew through the door and kissed me. I was sitting in my armchair and I didn’t even have time to speak—suddenly Sherlock was pressing into the space around me, demanding that I yield to him, to the ice in his eyes and the firm warmth of his lips. I was shocked, but I groaned my assent and never questioned anything. I knew that I had wanted him from the moment we met, and later, in the afterglow, I told him so. As if our physical relationship had influenced the other aspects of our friendship, we then became more in sync and were communicating more openly than ever before. But of course, now that I’ve shown weakness, it all makes sense. Sherlock Holmes will never see me as his equal, and I was a fool to think that a few shags would have changed that.

I flopped down on the bed, trying to calm my rapidly beating heart. The adrenaline coursing through my system was starting to recede, and I could feel my body crying out at that last exertion. Sleep would be coming soon if I could calm the thudding waves of anger in my mind.

I knew we would never have a typical relationship, but he was just so cavalier about using me. I should leave, I know I should. And if I were a smarter man, I would. But that’s the heart of it, isn’t it? I’m not a smarter man, and I will never be smart about the risks I take for Sherlock Holmes, and he and I both know it. I thought that didn’t matter, but I was wrong.

******************************************************************************

_I’m at home. Not 221B, but my childhood home, in the sitting room. There’s music playing. I look around and see my mum sitting on the sofa, the ugly one with the pink roses on it. She’s knitting a jumper and singing but I don’t recognize the tune. It’s mournful, but her voice is so clear and strong that it sounds sweet as well. I go over to her and sit at her feet. She puts a hand on my hair and strokes it back from my forehead but doesn’t stop singing, and she doesn’t look at me. “Mum?” I say, but no sound comes out. “Mum, can you hear me?” She still isn’t looking at me, focusing on the knitting needles in her hand, but her singing is getting louder and louder. “Mum, stop.” Something is wrong with my voice, nothing is coming out. “Mum, listen to me!” I try to touch her, but my hands go through her. I shrink back in horror, and she slowly fades away, leaving nothing but the unfinished bundle of knitting behind. I can still hear her singing though, so I know she must be near, and the music keeps getting louder. I turn around to run to the kitchen to look for her, shouting, “Mum! Where are you?” but making no sound. I collide with a solid object and when I look up, I see Sherlock. He’s standing in the doorway and looking down at me with those bright eyes, and he opens his mouth and now he’s the one who’s singing and I want him to stop but he won’t and I’m yelling his name but he won’t listen and that music is so sad, it’s killing me, make it stop, please Sherlock, make it stop, oh—_

“Sherlock!” I shouted, sitting upright in bed. I felt, more than heard, the absence of sound in the flat, and realized Sherlock had been playing the violin. He must have stopped when I cried out. I braced myself for the sight of him bursting through the bedroom door to see if everything was alright, and tried to decide whether such an outburst would make me relieved or angry. I settled on a little of both.

Of course, the point was moot because no consulting detective came through the door. Instead, the violin began again. I recognized the tune from my dream, although this was much quieter. It reminded me of a song my mum used to sing to me when I was sick called “Down in the Valley.” I think it’s an American song, but she had cousins who had moved to the U.S. when she was a child and she might have learned it from them. It always made me think of loss, and also comfort. Sherlock’s violin and my harried emotional state from last night must have invaded my subconscious.

I laid back on the bed and discovered the sheets were soaked through with a mixture of sweat and Vicks. Unpleasant, but it meant my fever must have broken in the night, which was good. I decided to get up to test my strength, and put on one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns just to spite him. My head wasn’t killing me nearly as much as it had before, and I didn’t feel the urge to cough. Apparently three days in bed was exactly what I needed.

Opening the door to the bedroom, I saw Sherlock standing by the window with his back to me, still playing that song. God, it was so much like the one my mother knew, but there was something different about it that I just couldn’t place. The notes were melding together in unexpected ways, but it was beautiful and haunting. I tried to ignore it as I went into the kitchen to get a cuppa but it was working its way inside my spine and traveling through my nerves. _Fuck_. I was still mad at him, but he knew I loved it when he played, and this particular song was tightening my chest and working its way into my lungs. Everything I breathed was Sherlock and the music, and it was making me want to curl into the sharp edges of him just to get the ache that was filling the empty places in me to subside.

It was all too much, and I hurried to make my tea and drink it quickly. I then headed back to Sherlock’s room where I stripped the bed. I really was feeling stronger than I had in days, and decided after I put the sheets in the hamper that another shower would do me good. It would also drown out Sherlock’s music, which was an added bonus.

I went into the bathroom and fresh towels were sitting on the counter. This was surprising, but I figured that Mrs. Hudson was picking up the slack on the washing since I had been out of commission. I knew Sherlock wasn’t doing it. I would have to take her out for dinner one evening to show my thanks.

The warm water felt good and I stretched my arms and legs in turn to loosen up my muscles. I couldn’t remember the last time I had gotten this much sleep, and my shoulder was definitely paying for it. Still, I was able to make it through the shower without any dizziness or lightheadedness and I could tell from that alone that I felt loads better. The water created enough white noise for me to think about what I wanted to say to Sherlock when we finally did speak. Our relationship had been going well up to this point, and this had been the first major fight since we became more than just flatmates. I absentmindedly ran the soap over my chest and stomach as I turned over the multitude of thoughts racing through my mind. Was I being unreasonable? _Yes and no._ I never asked him to take care of me, and Sherlock couldn’t be expected to automatically know just how powerless illness made me feel. _But he fucking deduces everything else about me._ True, and it did seem odd that he wouldn’t at least try to make me feel better. Although consideration wasn’t his strong suit, he wasn’t totally obtuse—he stole an ashtray for me, after all. _Maybe he doesn’t like being around sick people._ Seems unlikely given his constant contact with dead bodies, body parts, bacteria, molds, spores, and some substances I didn’t even want to ask about. Which brings it back to me. He didn’t want to be around me, specifically. If he couldn’t handle a simple cold, what would happen if I got severely injured? Put into a coma? What about when we got older? Lately the idea of us growing old together had seemed more and more possible—if one of us didn’t get blown up by a psychopath first. But now, it didn’t seem as if he could deal with the frailty of the human body. My body, at least. _Maybe that’s it—maybe it scared him to think I won’t always be at my best and strongest. Surely he wouldn’t worry about that with just a cold, though…would he?_

I sighed, and realized the hot water was beginning to run out. I shut the tap off and grabbed a fluffy white towel from the counter. After I dried off, I put Sherlock’s dressing gown back on, still mulling over what I wanted to say to him. I felt something in the pocket and reached in, pulling out my mobile. I didn’t remember putting it in there when I came from the bedroom, but I must have. There were two texts waiting for me—one from Sarah, telling me she hoped I was feeling better soon and would see me Monday, and one from Lestrade asking if I knew why Sherlock wasn’t answering his texts. That seemed rather odd, although with Sherlock being in the mood he was, it’s possible that anything Lestrade had to offer him was too boring. I sent a quick text telling Lestrade that Sherlock was working on some experiments at home, but to keep trying or come by the flat.

Pocketing the phone, I gathered my dirty pyjamas and headed up to my room. Sherlock had stopped playing but did not acknowledge my presence as I passed through the living room. As I went up the stairs, I thought I felt him staring at my back—which is crazy I know, but I swear his gaze really does feel like a physical presence when you’re upon the receiving end—but I didn’t turn around. I wasn’t quite ready to discuss what had happened last night.

My room was tidy, just as I left it. _Good to know he hasn’t been going through my things as usual. I suppose that’s one for the win column._ I deposited the dirty pyjamas into my hamper and changed into jeans and a striped jumper. It felt glorious to be wearing real clothes again. I almost felt 100% normal, although the vestiges of a headache still lingered.

It was Saturday, and I had no place to be. I decided to work on the blog, so I sat down at my desk and wrote for a couple of hours. Thinking about our last case and how it ended ( _pushed up against the kitchen counter, Sherlock’s hands and lips everywhere, and oh god, when he whispered in my ear that he never wanted anything more, that he needed me like this, spread open for him, Jesus, his fingers curled around my neck, possessive and hot, and when I came I screamed his name_ ) made it harder to stay angry at him. If he would just tell me what’s going on in that brilliant, insane mind of his, everything would be so much easier. But the danger, the uncertainty…that was the whole reason I fell in love with the madman in the first place. _So really, who’s the mad one?_

I put my laptop away and sat on my bed. Even though I’d been sleeping for the past three days, I still felt exhausted. An afternoon of work was a good distraction, but my body was reminding me that I still needed a bit more rest. I laid down, not bothering to change out of my clothes, and closed my eyes for a brief nap. When I woke up, I’d go downstairs and talk to him. But I needed to rest first.

******************************************************************************

I woke up laying on my right side to see a pair of ice-blue eyes staring into mine. I think I made a sound between a yelp and a grunt of surprise but before I could say anything, Sherlock’s lips were on mine, hard and unyielding and feverishly hot. I sighed as his tongue grazed the seam of my lips, and I allowed him inside, deepening the kiss. Finally my brain caught up to what my body was doing, and I put a hand on his chest, pushing him back. He whined as I broke the kiss, and leaned forward for a second attempt.

“Sherlock, _Sherlock!_ What are you doing? Why are you in my bed? And why are you snogging me? We had a fight, remember?”

“Yes, but that was utterly ridiculous. You’re well now, it’s been 103 hours, and I’ve been waiting—very patiently, I might add, not that you’d notice—so that I can do this.” And he kissed me again, his hand trailing down the side of my neck, making me shiver. His touch was gentle but demanding, and I could feel the heat of every inch him pressed up against me as he insinuated himself into the negative space between us. It was nearly impossible to tear myself away from that warmth, but I desperately needed a better handle on what was going on.

“Sherlock, stop. Stop, stop, stop.” He pulled a face, which I firmly ignored. “What are you talking about, 103 hours? What do you mean you’ve been waiting? I thought you were working on your experiments or cataloguing types of dust mites or something. You certainly weren’t talking to me.”

He huffed in frustration. “John, really. The contagious period for the common cold is 72 hours and it normally takes an average of 96 hours to recover from, and you made me wait an extra 7, making for a total of 103 hours. Why do you think I’ve been checking up on you so often? It was _torture_.”

It was my turn to be huffy. “You think _I_ was torturing _you_? Where were you, Sherlock?” This came out harsher than I intended, but I needed him to know how alone I had felt during his absence. “It would have been nice of you to at least show a little concern, maybe offer to bring me tea or even just watch telly with me. Instead, I’ve been alone for the past 103 hours, and I think I certainly would have noticed if you’d been ‘checking up on me’ as you say.”

He pulled back, his pale eyes searching my face, his brow slightly furrowed. “But I…I couldn’t be around you, John, I couldn’t risk catching your cold, but surely you don’t think I just—you couldn’t be that thick.” His tone was accusing now, and I could feel the same tightness in my chest that I always felt when he knew what was going on and wouldn’t _just bloody tell me_.

“Excellent apology, Sherlock. Really top notch. Apparently I am that thick, or I’d have some idea of what the fuck you’re talking about. You left me alone, and when you were here, you told me I was useless to you and then left again. Mrs. Hudson seems to be the only one around here who even gave a damn that I was sick!”

“Mrs. Hudson is at her sister’s in Essex. She’s been gone since Thursday.”

“But…but the soup she left—” I spluttered.

“I brought you the soup. And the Vicks. And the towels. And your mobile. Why do you think I put you in my bed in the first place? You were delirious, moaning about your mum and toast, and I needed you near so that I could monitor your progress. I had to track the results of putting some vitamin D supplements in the soup along with a mild sedative—”

“You drugged me??”

“Oh really, John, again with the melodrama. It was harmless, I just needed you to rest so you could recover more quickly. A lot of good it did, apparently, I still had to keep myself away from you for three whole days.”

“Moving right along past that violation of trust, why did you not just tell me what you were doing, Sherlock? Or say, ‘I’ll take care of you, John, I’ll just be in the other room so I don’t catch your cold.’”

“But, don’t you see? I couldn’t, I couldn’t be near you. I had to wait for you to get your strength back! It was awful! I had to see you in pain, which was horrible, and then when you were getting well, all I wanted to do was this—” and he shifted closer to me, placing light kisses on my neck. “If I was near you, I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself, and you needed to rest.” I relaxed into his touch, and he took that as an invitation to swirl his tongue just behind my jaw and then put his lips there, sucking just hard enough to elicit a small moan from me. _Well this conversation is not turning out how I imagined, but Christ that feels good._

“Why didn’t you come when I called out for you? When I woke up from my dream?” I asked, a bit more breathlessly than I intended.

He was still kissing my neck softly as he responded, and the vibrations of his voice against my skin were causing my breath to hitch slightly. “I wanted to, but it was still too soon. Besides, I was playing for you. I remember you saying your mum used to sing to you when you were sick, and I thought the violin might serve the same purpose. Sentimental and dull, but I thought it might speed your recovery. And playing helped pass the endless time I spent waiting for your convalescence. Are we done talking now?” He punctuated that with a nip at my earlobe.

The weight of what he’d just said caused hot tears to prick my eyes. “I can’t believe you remembered that.”

Hearing the quaver in my voice, he stopped kissing me. “Of course I did,” he said, looking puzzled and surprised. “It’s in the John Watson file.”

I snorted a laugh at that. “You have a John Watson file. And what else is in this file, may I ask?”

He waved a hand impatiently at me. “Oh, everything.”

“Tell me.”

“Fine,” he sighed. “You like your tea with three sugars instead of two. You hum when you do the washing up, and it’s always “God Save the Queen.” You have seven freckles on your right shoulder and nine on your left. You blink an average of 16 times per minute, more if you’ve been talking to Harry or Mycroft.” He had started off annoyed, but he was enjoying showing off now. I knew he was reveling in the look of wonder that must have been on my face. “You always put your trousers on with your left leg first, then your right. You don’t like white chocolate or blueberries. Your tongue tastes like spearmint and tea and strawberries mixed together. I’m still working on analyzing your smell, but I’ll—” I stopped him with a kiss just as forceful as the one I received from him when I woke up.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” I murmured against his lips as I pulled his body snug up against mine again. “I’m sorry for what I thought, I know you wouldn’t abandon me, I’m sorry.” I could feel him grin against my mouth. He reached his hand up to stroke the side of my face, and cupped my cheek. “You _must_ stop underestimating me, John. It gets so tiresome having to keep explaining my desire for you,” he whispered.

“That may be, but please don’t ever stop,” I replied. He pulled me into another one of those scorching kisses, and I felt all the anxiety and anger I had been stewing in evaporate. This was where we communicated most clearly, skin on skin, breathing into each other. Sometimes I wondered how I could put up with the infuriating genius laying next to me, but then these moments came and I wondered how I had ever lived without him.

He pushed me flat on my back and tugged at the hemline of my jumper. I raised my arms up over my head and he removed the jumper in one graceful swoop. I saw his eyes widen at the large expanse of skin he had exposed, and he ran his fingertips over the planes of my chest, lightly grazing each nipple. I let out a giggle at the ticklish sensation, but then he dipped his head to swipe my left nipple with his tongue and I groaned at the spark of sensation. God, he had a talented mouth, and his hands were roaming everywhere, playing down my sides and eliciting whispered curses that all took the form of his name. He brought his mouth back up to mine but did not kiss me, content to taste the breath we shared as his lips hovered over mine. I licked at the gorgeous cupid’s bow of his upper lip and he made a noise almost like a purr in the back of his throat. His fingers continued to seek and explore every square inch of my upper body—he was playing me like his violin, pressing and stroking the strings of my skin. I was breathless as he continued to tease my mouth with his while one of his hands settled at the flies of my jeans, busily working the button and zip with his long, graceful fingers. He put his hands on my hips and I raised them obediently so he could pull off my jeans and pants. I felt a rush of cool air as my clothes were tossed to the floor, but the solid warmth of Sherlock’s body between my legs followed soon after. He was still clothed and I liked the way the soft, expensive fabric of his shirt and trousers felt against my flushed skin. He began to trail kisses down my chest and stomach, and each felt like a brand on me. I could tell his patience had been tested while waiting for my recovery because his movements were growing more desperate, the trail of kisses he was leaving down my skin growing sloppy and wanton.

I fisted my hands into his silky black curls and marveled at the feeling of my fingers running through his hair. My cock was already hard and leaking, eager for Sherlock’s mouth, and he didn’t even tease me as he usually did. He sucked a mark on each of my hipbones and then briefly kissed my left inner thigh before licking a blazingly hot trail up the underside of my cock. “Sherlock,” I whimpered, and he hummed a noncommittal response as he engulfed me in the tight wet heat of his mouth.

He took me in as far as he could accommodate, then hollowed his cheeks as he slowly pulled off. Then he swirled his tongue around the head and up one side, like I was a melting ice cream cone. I moaned and he took that as a sign to continue. He bobbed down again, sucked me slowly, and then drew off to lick the other side. It was hot and sweet and perfect, and I began to pant as he used that clever tongue to turn me inside out. He was going torturously slow, but he set up a rhythm quickly—bob, suck, lick, repeat—and soon my hips were bucking off the bed, trying to add more friction. He began to go faster, using one hand to pin my hips down while the other hand snaked its way up my stomach and chest, rubbing circles over my skin. I grabbed his hand and took his index finger in my mouth, mirroring his thoroughly obscene ministrations to my cock with my tongue. His eyes flicked up in surprise to meet mine and his gaze surged through me, his pupils were blown and I could see his beautiful lips stretched around my cock and _god_ , Sherlock, how are you doing this to me, please, Sherlock, yes, god, please—“Sherlock!” I cried out helplessly for the second time that day, only this time he was there, swallowing around me as I rode through the aftershocks of my electric climax.

I sighed as he climbed back up my body with feline grace to lay next to me on the bed. “That was amazing,” I said dazedly.

“I told you I’d been waiting. I had 103 hours to think about what I wanted to do to you.” He nuzzled into the space between my neck and shoulder and gently pressed his lips there, content to breathe into me. The sun was just going down, and the red-gold light slanting through my window enveloped Sherlock in a halo of gorgeous colour. I could feel his rock hard length pressing against my hip, and I couldn’t leave him in such a state—especially not after all the displays of consideration he’d just shown me. Had been showing me for days now.

“Come here,” I whispered as I maneuvered him onto his back so that I could lay on my side, covering his chest with mine. “You are so fucking beautiful,” I said as I undid the buttons on his shirt quickly and leaned over to kiss him. It was always intoxicating to taste myself on his lips, because it felt like an animalistic claim of territory—he was marked as mine somehow. That was a dangerous way of thinking, but it didn’t make it feel any less true. I deepened the kiss, alternatively sucking his tongue and nipping at his lower lip, eliciting tiny groans that seemed to echo up from deep inside his chest. Running my hands down the pale contours of his bare chest and stomach, tinged in that soft gold light, I continued to tease his mouth while I worked at the zip on his trousers.

He lifted his hips so I could tug his trousers down—no pants, the lazy git, he could never be bothered—and the slim hard length of him came free. I gently took his cock in my hand and squeezed lightly at the base. He inhaled sharply at the contact, and I swiped my tongue across his bottom lip. Playing the same game he had played with me, I opened my mouth and lightly grazed my lips across his, breathing in the warm, humid gasps that were escaping him as I pumped my hand up his shaft, using my thumb to smear a bead of precome across the head. I gripped him firmly as I pumped back down, again lightly squeezing the base. I rested my forehead against his and he looked into my eyes ( _his eyes look gray today, it’s amazing how they change color the way they do_ ) as I continued to stroke him, sometimes twisting my wrist just so, sometimes using the pad of my thumb to graze his frenulum, but keeping up a steady, unrelenting rhythm. His forehead was damp with sweat and he was already close, so close, I could tell by the way his breath was becoming uneven, but he never broke eye contact with me as I began to stroke faster. “John,” he warned, his voice an octave lower than normal. I continued to pick up the pace as he let out shuddery breaths against my lips. He could play me like the violin, but I could take him apart and put him back together, fitting him into something that was _mine_ , all the pieces touched by me and so fundamentally changed by John Watson that none of them could function without me. I captured his mouth with mine, obscenely fucking my tongue against his, capturing all of his gasps for mercy until he began to buck wildly into my fist. He tried to scream my name, but I swallowed the sound as I kept my lips hovering against his while his hot seed spurted over my hand and I milked every drop of pleasure from him as he came down.

I finally broke our kiss and simply watched the tiny flickers of emotion that crossed Sherlock Holmes’ face after a brilliant orgasm. That was a sight I knew I would never tire of seeing. I cleaned Sherlock up as best I could and then resumed my former position snuggled up against him. He put his arm around my shoulders and I laid my head on his chest, feeling as much as hearing his thudding heartbeat. We stayed like that for a minute before I broke the silence. “Thank you for taking care of me, even if I didn’t know it.”

“Mm,” he replied.

“I promise not to doubt you again.”

“Good. I hope you know by now that there was no cause to doubt in the first place. I trust you realize that I could never truly leave you, John. Even if that appears to be the case, I will always be taking care of you. Never believe any different. ”

I half-heard his words as the vibrations from the hollows of his chest were lulling me back to sleep. My last thought before falling into contented darkness was that I would never really be alone again as long as I had Sherlock in my life.


End file.
